


A Different Kind of Date

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Date Night, F/F, July Fic Swap Challenge, sorry it took me forever and a half
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 00:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19897210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: They've never gone on a proper date.  Not really.Hilda chooses paint night, Zelda chooses wine.-based in TamaraAdama14's A Different Kind of Family AU





	A Different Kind of Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TamaraAdama14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TamaraAdama14/gifts).



> i'm so sorry this fic has taken me so long! the muse went Angela Lansbury and said "not today, dear."  
> (it's not *technically* a mirror of your 'verse, I didn't wanna mess with your canon!)   
> even still - i had a lot of fun writing this! i hope you like it :)

“Paint night?”

Zelda’s glare could strip paint from the walls.

“I said ‘ _date night_.’”

Hilda is unrepentantly cheeky.

“And then you said something about communal painting.” Zelda sniffs, disdain coloring her movements, right down to her pen scritching as she fills out paperwork.

“You like painting though.” Undeterred, Hilda leans a hip against the desk. “And you’re good at it.”

The preen escapes before Zelda remembers she’s against this whole affair.

“But not with other people. Painting the same thing with strangers is taking a bayonet to free will and jumping headfirst off a cliff. Only it’s not a cliff, rather a methadone death of true creativity.”

“I just thought,” Hilda fiddles Zelda’s pearl bracelet. “We never _did_ get to go on a _proper_ date...”

The sigh sags Zelda’s entire frame, but her fingers intertwine with her sister’s.

She knows when she’s been had.

“You already paid for it, didn’t you.”

Hilda pretends sheepish, but the quirk in her lips revels her unspoken victory.

“It’ll be fun.”

“Spare me your optimism.”

“Did I mention there’s wine?”

“Sister dearest, you should have started with that.”

~*~

Zelda’s not even two sipfuls into her Merlot when the headache starts.

The headache takes form in one Rebecca Williams and her five children, or cats, or dogs, or whatever animals she’s currently raving on about raising.

“Oh yes, they’re a handful — _so_ much work, but _so_ rewarding.”

Hilda elbows Zelda in the side for her rather grandiose eye roll.

“I’d like to see her raise nine witches, or an entire coven.” She whisper-hisses out the corner of her mouth.

Hilda tuts, but there’s mirth in her eyes as she whispers right back.

“Rebecca lives in suburbia. That’s hell enough.”

A thrill zips down Zelda’s spine.

She does so love when her baby sister goes catty.

“Do elaborate on that.”

“No but Zelds — Just picture it. Lines of houses all the same. Pot roast or some such every night. Store bought cookies for dessert.”

She shudders on that last bit. Zelda revels in the chance to agree on something.

“I’m sure she’s having the time of her life spilling grapevine gossip and unironically wearing shirts that promote wine dependence.”

Hilda snorts, steals a sip of Zelda’s Merlot pointedly.

Zelda makes a moue, takes it back and downs a gulp.

“That’s _different_.”

“How so?”

“She drinks to deal with children. I drink to deal with you.”

~*~

Rebecca rambles on.

The sisters play a game.

Any time the talking headache mentions soccer practice, her neighbor’s petty antics, or her husband’s hopeless incompetence at domesticity — both of them take a drink.

Hilda is tipsy-giggling halfway through her painting.

Zelda makes it only just a bit farther.

Their forests of trees grow in sloppy acrylic, toeing the line between artful mess and drunken ingenuity.

When Rebecca says something wine-worthy, Zelda taps Hilda’s arm. Sometimes she forgets to put her brush down first.

Hilda’s cardigan is peppered with green and miscellaneous paint.

She doesn’t notice at all, tongue tip poked out as she squints at her canvas, trying to force the trees back into focus.

As the paint session winds to a close, Hilda leans closer, hands clumsy and reaching for her sister.

Zelda knows there will be painted fingertips on her elbow. She doesn’t care at all.

“Zelds,” Hilda mumbles.

She leans closer, feels hot and wine-honeyed breath on the shell of her ear.

Her knees go weak in her chair.

“Yes, Hildie?”

“I think we should burn these to the ground.”

Zelda looks at their paintings.

Hers is fine.

A passable forest, if a bit darker than their instructor had wanted.

But she couldn’t care less what they thought. If she can’t paint with black, she won’t paint at all.

Hilda’s, however . . .

Hilda’s is a mess.

Some trees randomly float in the air, others buried too deep in the earth. The rays of sunlight Hilda was trying to filter in look like globs of yellow scraped thin.

The form is fine, if a little wobbly, just abstract and disjointed.

It’s actually quite dreamy.

“Just wait till they dry.”

~*~

They walk home together, dizzy and warm and full up of wine and giggles.

The city lights haze on swimmy eyes, the world pitches a tilt of contentment.

Zelda clutches her and Hilda’s paintings in one hand. 

Her other is tucked securely in the crook of Hilda’s elbow.

Little sister resolutely tugs them both home.

The fireflies glow on grass as they amble up the driveway, little stars dancing on earth’s surface.

Zelda’s shoulder gently knocks Hilda’s every other step.

She realizes in this quiet moment — this is why people date.

Separated time to simply be happy with someone right next to you.

She finally sees the appeal. 

On the front porch, yellow lights gleam soft on Hilda’s hair. She is bottled sunshine, messy and paint-speckled and grinning even though she’s doing nothing but staring at Zelda.

Zelda tugs their hands, bringing Hilda in closer.

“This wasn’t as terrible as I’d thought it would be,” she murmurs, hovering a centimeter from her sister’s mouth. 

“Told you it would be fun.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Well, Zelds,” Hilda’s arms go round Zelda’s neck, green stained hands carding through strawberry hair. “ _I_ had fun.”

And then Zelda’s kissing her, and there’s laughter and Merlot and easy affection between them.

She can feel at least six pairs of eyes staring at their disheveled mothers' embrace through the kitchen windows.

For the fun of it, and because she wants to, she kisses Hilda again. 

She laughs against Hilda’s mouth when she hears the sound of squeals.

~*~

She wakes to a throbbing headache and a dry mouth.

Hilda snores in her bed across from her.

Their paintings gleam dry and ugly in the daylight.

She is aghast.

Wine vision lied to her.

“Hilda?” She rasps, unable to look away from their artistic eyesores.

The snoring stops.

“Hilda.”

A deep groan.

“ _Hilda_.”

“What?”

She sits up, glaring bleary-eyed and resentful as her hangover settles in.

“ _What_ Zelda?”

The equally suffering sister nods to the acrylics on canvas.

“We should burn these to the ground.”

Hilda squints, huffs, then lies back down. 

“You only say that ‘cause mine is better than yours.”


End file.
